


Maybe Poetry Readings Aren't So Bad

by imissmaeberry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Poet Castiel, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imissmaeberry/pseuds/imissmaeberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam calls in a favor and drags Dean to a slam poetry reading with him when Jess can't come. Dean is mostly unimpressed until the last act of the night gets up and speaks - bringing the entire crowd to tears. And it doesn't hurt that the guy is painfully attractive, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Poetry Readings Aren't So Bad

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Caswitch's post on [tumblr!](http://caswitch.tumblr.com/post/107760926817/au-where-sam-drags-dean-to-a-poetry-slam-dean-is)  
> I saw it and I was all "I absolutely have to write this right now"

Dean’s not really sure how he ended up here – in a cramped café surrounded by hipsters with their multi-colored hair and numerous piercings, sitting next to his brother who looks like he couldn’t be more excited.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He knows exactly how he got here, he’s just not really all that happy about the circumstances.

When Sam had called him an hour ago, telling him that Jess was supposed to go to this poetry slam – “A what?” – with him, but she had to bail to go visit her grandmother in the hospital. “You owe me anyway, Dean, so here it is. I’m calling in my favor. Come to the poetry slam with me.”

Dean had groaned over the phone. The only reason he owed Sam a favor in the first place was because Sam had bailed him out of a date with this girl he’d been totally into when they met in the queue at the coffee house down the block from his office, but once they’d gotten to the actual date things hadn’t worked out so well. Dean had called Sam from the bathroom, begging him to get him out of this train wreck by feigning emergency.

Sam had reluctantly agreed, but only after insisting that Dean would owe him. After Dean’s plea of “Okay, okay, okay, okay Sammy please,” Sam agreed to call Dean five minutes later so that Dean could fake his way out of the date (only after paying, of course).

So now, here he sat with Sammy, sipping at a mug of coffee with a grimace on his face. “Why did you want to come to this thing anyway, Sammy? Got nothin’ else to do but listen to a bunch of people stammer and overuse metaphors and similes?”

Sam just laughed. “Just shut up and listen to what they say, Dean. Don’t pretend like you don’t like poetry, I know you have secret copies of Frost and WB Yeats. I think if you actually listen, you’ll think differently.”

Dean shrugged. “Whatever you say, Sammy.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, waiting, until a young man came up onto the stage and grabbed the mic. “Alright alright, how’s everybody doing tonight?” The crowd cheered, putting a smile on the man’s face. “Okay! For those of you who’ve never been here before, my name’s Mike, and I’m gonna be your MC tonight. Welcome to the Rise and Grind’s weekly poetry slam. Help me welcome to the stage our first author, Pamela!”

And so it went. But for the most part, Dean was unimpressed. These kids all wrote about the same things, being misunderstood and how the world will only change if you make it. Some of them had been really good though, and he’d snapped along with the rest of the crowd – but only after being heckled for clapping.

Mike came back onto the stage, thanking a young girl for her piece on society’s expectations for the younger generation and taking the mic. “Okay, everyone, now we have our last act of the night. He’s new so be gentle, alright? Last but not least, CN.”

A young man walked onto the stage. Not unlike several others, he held a piece of paper in his hands, his work. He walked towards Mike and took the microphone from him, murmuring a ‘thank you’ and glancing shyly at his feet. He cleared his throat and tucked his papers into his pocket before running a hand through his dark brown hair. And then he began to speak.

“Unconditional.  
Definition: Not limited by conditions.  
No, ifs, ands, or buts about it.  
So when I say, ‘Mommy, I really like that boy’  
She says, ‘of course honey, I’m sure you’ll be friends’  
And when I say, ‘no, mommy, I think he’s cute,’  
She smacks me across the face.  
When I tell my father I want to be an artist, a writer,  
He tells me to ‘quit that fag shit, son, and pick a real job’”

Everyone was transfixed. The man’s voice was gravelly and deep, and his voice cracked every now and then, and his bright blue eyes were glassy as he continued.

“But I am not afraid of being who I am.  
Of loving who I love. Because I know  
That when I say I love you unconditionally  
I mean that in the truest sense of the word.  
I should not have to hide myself  
I should not have to pretend  
They will not make me  
They cannot make me.”

Dean felt his own eyes welling with tears. He remembered when he had come out as bisexual, and the stares and the jeers he had received. His mother had accepted him. He hadn’t spoken to his father in years.

“I cannot, will not  
Be something I am not  
For the sake of people who do not love me  
Not as I am.  
Not unconditionally.  
I would rather be alone the rest of my life  
Than to be with someone I do not love  
In order to please those who do not love me.  
Years of anger and self-hatred because  
I didn’t understand  
Because the one thing I so  
Desperately desired  
Was that unconditional love  
From the two people  
Who would never give it to me.”

The tears were streaming down his face and his voice was catching high in his throat.

“When I was left for dead  
On a sidewalk in Chicago  
I called my mother  
Even though she’d asked me not to  
Because I brought shame  
To the family name  
Because I was queer,  
Because I was a fag,  
Because I’d told them I was going  
To be who I wanted to be  
Myself.  
I only truly became myself  
When I decided the only  
Person I needed to be there for me  
Was me.  
I am myself. I love myself. I love men.  
And I will never pretend otherwise.  
Not anymore.  
I love myself unconditionally.  
No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

And with that, CN put the microphone back into the stand, and walked off of the stage to the sounds of sobs and cheers. Dean stood and clapped, traditions and rules be damned.

Next to him, Sam was snapping his fingers and laughing.

“Dude!” Dean admonished, “How can you laugh at that? He just bared his soul up there and you’re laughing?”

“No, Dean, I’m laughing at you. You came here and were all butt hurt about it but you did enjoy yourself. Just like I said you would.”

Dean stopped and blinked. He wiped the tear trails from his cheeks and before he knew what he was doing he was making his way to the back of the café, back to where he had seen CN going. Upon finding him, Dean stood nervously behind him for a moment before gathering his courage and tapping him on the shoulder.

CN was even more attractive up close. Dean could see the length of his eyelashes and the way his lips curved up when he turned around. “Yes?”

“I, um, well, I just wanted to say that you were great up there. I just, I’m so sorry for what you’ve gone through. I can’t even imagine.”

CN glanced own at his feet. “Thank you. It means a lot that you say that…?”

“Dean. Dean Winchester. And um,” He could feel the blush rising on his cheeks, “If y-you don’t mind me saying, you’re very attractive. Like, your eyes are like a whole other level of blue, and your cheekbones and I’m rambling and I’m so, so sorry but I – ”

CN smiled at him and took a pen from his pocket, grabbing Dean’s hand and writing something on the back of it. “My name is Castiel. You should use that,” he gestured to what he had written, which was apparently a phone number, “and call me sometime, Dean Winchester, so you can wax poetic about my cheekbones some more.” Castiel smirked at him and turned back around, walking out the door, leaving Dean a blushing, stuttering mess.

“Yeah. I’ll do that, Cas.”


End file.
